Love, or What Is This Sinking Feeling?
by Amberssister
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley must face the music, when their respective bosses want to know what exactly is going on here. A/C SLASH. My first GO fic, so be gentle.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own **_**Good**__**Omens**_**, or the characters therein. This was written for entertainment purposes only, and I make no profit. All rights belong to Neil Gaiman, and Terry Pratchett, literary gods, both of them.**

**WARNINGS: A/C SLASH. Little bit of language.**

_**A/N: My first GO fic, so please R&R.**_

Many things had changed in the ten years since the Almost-Apocalypse. The world had seen hundreds of small wars (and one or two large ones), more deaths than any one could count1, and quite a few political upheavals.

None of this mattered to Crowley. After six thousand years, he'd seen things that would make any mortal creature go insane. Or, at least want to. Indeed, the decade between then and now would have gone almost completely unnoticed by the demon, except for one small, infinitesimal, almost non-existent thing. Somewhere in there, he'd quit thinking of Aziraphale as the angel, and started thinking of him as _his_ angel. It was the kind of small, unimportant thing that can bring an empire to its knees.

It didn't bother Crowley as much as it could have. Contrary to popular belief, demons are almost always honest2, and Crowley was more so than most. Especially with himself. He wasn't bothered by it, because it was true. Aziraphale was his, the way anybody belonged to someone else. The way he belonged to the angel.

It was all in the way Crowley would never let anybody hurt Aziraphale, unless he was the one doing it. It was in the way the angel could hurt him with a word, could find just the right phrase to rip him into shreds, could make him die a little with every sharp syllable, and Crowley would still go home feeling like he'd had a pretty good day. It was in the way Crowley wanted to (and did) make the angel laugh, and smile and feel good. It was in every wound, every embrace and every gesture that they made.

If they ever talked about it, Crowley was sure, Aziraphale would simply say it was ineffable, and for once, Crowley would agree with his use of the term. But, they never did speak of it, dodging the subject like gymnasts when it even came close to being brought up.

The Arrangement was one thing, but this was another completely. Talking about feelings might lead to _actual_ feeling, and that was the sort of thing that Simply Was Not Done in Azi's world. In Crowley's, it was the kind of thing that _was_ done with vigor, repeatedly if possible. He'd probably get a condemnation for defiling an angel. Hell would talk about it for centauries. Crowley wasn't willing to take that chance. Anything the two of them did that landed one of them praise would very likely land the other in the hot seat. Literally.

So, it went unsaid, but not unnoticed. That isn't to say that it was the only thing occupying Crowley's thoughts, because that would be untrue. He honestly hadn't thought much about it at all, until the Incident. It was just a small, natural side effect of having a human body, and he dismissed it out of hand.

Then, one night, Crowley had awoken suddenly, with unabashed terror crawling across his skin. Aziraphale was in trouble; he could feel it, because that trouble was another demon. A new demon3, who was unaware of the rules, especially the one where you did not fuck with Crowley's angel.

He climbed out of bed and stormed towards the door, materializing a meticulous Armani suit on the way. This happened from time to time. Hell was always sending new demons up to test their skills, and some of them tried to make a name for themselves by killing one of Heaven's envoys. It rarely ever worked, and Azi could certainly take care of himself, but when Crowley reached the Bentley, he took off at 110 mph anyway.

xxXXxx

He reached Soho about three minutes later, and zoned in on the wayward demon almost immediately. He was only a block from Aziraphale's shop, and Crowley could feel his every thought and intention. 'Get a condemnation for this' he was thinking, 'Take out this bugger, it'll be weeks before he gets a new body. I could destroy London before he gets back. Hell, without opposition the whole of England could be mine.'

Crowley growled, and swung the Bentley into an available parking space, where a little red Ford had been just seconds before. He was angry, and not because Aziraphale was in physical danger, but because what the demon was thinking was true. Azi would come back, but the havoc that ensued in his absence would be total. Without an angelic counterpoint, this newbie could tempt and wile unfettered, without style or finesse. Crowley was determined not to let that happen. It went against the Arrangement, and Godbless it, Aziraphale was his, _England _was his, and Crowley was nothing if not territorial.

He allowed himself to slip into a pleasurable rage, and advanced on _That Bastard_, starting a fight to the inconvenient discorperation.

xxXXxx

Aziraphale sat inside his bookshop, completely engrossed in a new first edition. He'd managed to shut out all noise, all feeling, and all supernatural communication, except, of course, for Crowley. He had noticed recently that a small part of him was always in tune with the demon. It wasn't something he wanted, but something that was nevertheless there. It worried Aziraphale quite a bit. As an angel, he was never supposed to love one person, or thing, more than anything else. When he thought about it, it made him vaguely uneasy.

None of this was on his mind that night, however. The book he was reading was very rare, very intellectual, very deep, and _very_ boring. Reading it was like trying to wade through a pool of super-glue. It took all of Aziraphale's concentration to keep his eyes moving from one word to the next. He was almost at the point of not reading it, and just saying he had4.

These were the thoughts tripping idly through his head when he heard Crowley's voice raised in an inarticulate howl of rage and pain.

Aziraphale did not freeze. He simply dropped the book5, and (almost literally) flew out the shop.

He saw Crowley immediately, less than a block from his door. The demon, his demon, was locked in battle with another, whom Aziraphale didn't know.

The other demon had his teeth buried in Crowley's shoulder, while Crowley kicked and clawed.

Aziraphale didn't think. He reacted solely on instinct. He may have been an angel, and a rather prissy one at that, but in Heaven he'd been a guardian and a warrior. He advanced upon the two, as quietly as only an angel can manage, and, wings spread out behind him, wrenched the new demon away from Crowley by the throat.

The demon flailed out, striking Aziraphale in the face, and the angel, with the clean ease of a professional, snapped his neck.

The nameless demon made a strangled _gow_ sound, and then simply faded away.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, staring at the empty demon-shaped space. "Oh, my. Crowley, are you all right?"

"I would've had him," Crowley grumbled. "You didn't have to _rescue_ me. I have m' pride ya' know."

Aziraphale stared at him blankly, then straightened his hair and folded in his wings. "Right" he said. "I do suppose a 'Thank you, Aziraphale, for removing that demon that was causing me considerable pain', _would_ be _just _outside of your manners. It isn't as if I've drawn undo attention to myself by dispatching him6. It isn't as if I've ruined a perfectly good, and might I add expensive, shirt in the process. I mean, look at it. It's all in tatters."

Crowley smirked, and straightened his sunglasses. "It isn't as if you had to release your wings," he pointed out. "That was blatant showing off, that was."

"Oh, _really_, dear." Aziraphale said, his eyes turning icy.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Crowley smiled.

"Thank you, Azi," he finally conceded. "It was dead painful when that bugger bit me."

Aziraphale smiled thinly, and healed the wound on Crowley's shoulder. "Don't call me that," he said, "it's rather undignified. What was that all about, anyway? You're a long way from home, aren't you?"

Crowley just shrugged, and touched Aziraphale's face in a way that made the angel shiver. The demon could be very annoying, and he was without question evil, but he could be so gentle at times. Aziraphale found himself leaning into the touch, and then pulled away sharply.

"Really, dear. That kind of behavior is quite inappropriate. What has gotten into you?"

Crowley shrugged again, and then smiled wryly. "Nothing," he said. "Just picked up his smell, felt in the mood for a good fight. Haven't had one since Hastur, during the Apocalypse. Good times, eh?" he laughed mirthlessly, and clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. "We should get together for lunch tomorrow. We could hit the Ritz, go to the park after. It won't be like last time, I promise. What do you say? I'll pick you up around noon, shall I?"

Aziraphale nodded dumbly, and watched as Crowley hurried back to his car, and then took off like he'd just remembered he'd left the gas on. Odd, that. The entire night had been odd, really.

Aziraphale watched until the Bentley's taillights rounded the corner, and then headed back to his shop. What he found waiting for him promised to make his night even less pleasant.

xxXXxx

Crowley slowed once he was out of sight, and let the car drive itself7. He hadn't known how to explain the night's events to Aziraphale, without bringing up the Subject, and he was cur- blessing himself for how he'd handled it. The angel was anything but stupid, and tomorrow he would want answers.

Crowley thought of blowing off the lunch date he'd stupidly made, but dismissed the thought immediately. His palm still tingled from where it had rested on Azi's face, and his heart was still in his throat from the implications of the unconscious gesture. For some reason, the two combined left him feeling better than he had since he'd invented Scientology.

Crowley smiled, despite his uneasiness, and decided to take whatever was to come.

1 Although, there's always the deranged few who try, like statisticians, or some peoples Grandma.

2 They just have a tendency to leave out important bits. Like, 'because he'll be hit by a truck,' when telling temptable young ladies 'Your husbands about to leave you.'

3 Circa 1783, but just out of training. Long, boring, essentially pointless training programs that taught you absolutely nothing useful about your new job, had been a point of triumph* for Crowley. Hell might have taken it a bit far, though.

* Another great point had been assigning trainers who'd never held the position themselves, but they had read about it, or at least heard of it. They definitely know what all the words mean, anyway, and if they ever figure out what you'll actually be doing, they'll certainly send you a memo.

4 Also contrary to popular belief, angels can lie, and frequently do. Really, if every angel told every person they met nothing but the complete, God's honest truth, they'd leave nothing but chaos and destruction in their wake.

5 Which floated gently to the floor, a silk ribbon marking the angel's place. If part of him was always in tune with Crowley, another part was _always _in tune with his books.

6 Not for the actual dispatching, but for the reason behind the dispatching. Heaven would surely want to know, and they had a knack for getting the truth. Several knacks, in fact, each a bit more cringe inducing than the last.

7 This is something he rarely did, because he knew machines could develop personalities over time, if you let them. The last thing he needed was a cocky car that didn't do as it was told.


	2. Chapter 2

"Michael!" Aziraphale said, rather shocked to find the archangel sitting in his shop. "It's lovely to see you. It's been what, a thousand years? Two thousand? Fancy that, us not seeing each other for two hundred centauries. How have you been? Well, I'm sure."

Aziraphale was rambling, his eyes scanning the shop for anything incriminating. He knew it was spotless, but things have a way of turning up at inconvenient times1, and it wouldn't do for Michael to find any of Crowley's… personal objects. It would be just like the demon to leave one of his toys under the sofa, just to get under Aziraphale's skin. Luckily, he could find nothing on quick inspection.

Aziraphale smiled far too broadly, and ushered the Archangel into the back room.

"Please, make yourself comfortable. What do you want- I mean, what can I do for you?"

Michael sat quietly for a moment, looking at the book-stuffed back room like it was the eighth circle of Hell. When his eyes seemed to run out of horrors to light on, he looked Aziraphale in the eye, and cleared his throat.

"We are rather disturbed," he said, "to say the least. It seems you have gotten a bit too familiar with an unsavory element, if you catch my meaning. We have been aware for sometime now that you have developed a working relationship with your nemesis, but we did not feel it was our place to interfere, as long as your work kept up. Your personal relationship, as it were, is undesirable, but that business is between you and God. We have given you a lot of slack, Aziraphale, because you have been an exemplary soldier, but tonight we feel things have gone too far.

Your interference between the demon Crawly and the demon Mangoc was ill advised. A more proper course of action would have been to wait, and then dispatch the victor. The time you would have had while Hell prepared a new envoy would have been invaluable. The progress you could have made in the sanctification of this city would have been incalculable. Instead, you chose sides, predictably aiding the demon Crawly, and allowing him to remain active. I must ask why you did this, and why this particular demon is so important to you. Aziraphale, you do spend more time with him than is strictly necessary. The time has come for us to ask why."

Aziraphale had been waiting for this question, and he had an answer well prepared. It was a good answer too; so good, in fact, he almost believed it.

"As for tonight," he said, winging this part, "I acted rashly, and I do apologize. I couldn't be absolutely sure I would win in a fight with Mangoc, so I removed him first, when he wasn't expecting me. The devil you know right? Then, once it was just down to Crow- Crawly and myself, he was already injured, and he thanked me, and engaging him didn't seem very sports-man like. As to the other, I merely thwart him. He can come up with the most ghastly plans when he's in a foul temper, and what kind of angel would I be if I just let him do as he pleased? Besides," he added, with a burst of angelic pride, "I daresay I have a good influence over him. Just last week he saved all those people when that restaurant caught fire. He carried two small children out himself. He wouldn't have done that a thousand years ago."

He sat back and beamed at Michael, who gave him a rather skeptical look.

"Well", Michael finally said, "I hazard that would have been much more heroic, had he not started that fire himself."

Aziraphale made a gesture like he was trying wave away a bothersome fly. "Oh, well yes," he said, "but the food really was awful, and so expensive. It's just evil, selling that garbage for £30 a plate. Not that I would have burned the place down, but I most certainly would not have left a tip2."

Michael raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He was clearly out of his depth in human affairs. "Getting back to matters at hand," he said, "we do feel that your time with Crawly has gotten a bit excessive. Not that your efforts at thwarting aren't appreciated, but this… Aziraphale, he is not your friend. He is the enemy, one of the Fallen, ruined and unclean. You do realize this?"

Aziraphale nodded stiffly, not liking the direction this conversation was going.

"Good," Michael continued, "because we are not the only ones with a complaint. I had a rather interesting conversation with an envoy from Hell before coming here. They are also quite concerned with the state of things here. Crawly is in danger of being recalled to Hell, which I must say, only suits our purpose. I know you care for him, as you must care for all of God's creations, including the refuse, but we feel that his reclamation would be best for everyone involved. Especially you. We also feel that you might do well with a holiday. We are considering transferring you to another station. Someplace in America, perhaps. They could use your angelic input."

Aziraphale bit his tongue, and waited for the rage to pass. He felt like cursing, but that would do him no good. When he trusted himself to speak, he said, "That would suit their purposes, don't you think? Perhaps that's exactly what they want you to do, and then they'll put Crowley right back on top, and who do you have that would be better at opposing him then me? I mean no disrespect, but if Hell is concerned, I'd say I'm doing something right."

Michael smiled for the first time since entering the shop, and said, "That thought had crossed my mind, but I fear for you Aziraphale. Crawly, or Crowley as you call him, made his choice long ago. He was an angel once, something he can never be again, and his slight redemption is not worth your Fall."

Aziraphale nodded. "I'm in no danger of falling over Crowley, sir. Our relationship is strictly wile and thwart. If he finds redemption along the way, I'll be glad of it, but it's nothing I actively work for." He kept his tone solemn and hoped the lie didn't show on his face.

"Very well," Michael said. "I'll take what you've said into consideration, and I'll let you know what we decide. Oh, one last thing. When I spoke to the Hellish envoy, at the end of the conversation he said if we had any more problems with Crawly in this regard to just 'shoot him an emu.' Aziraphale, do you have any idea why they would want us to make sacrifice of an emu unto them?"

Aziraphale worked this through in his mind, and then smiled.

"An e-mail, sir," he said. "I think he meant send him and e-mail." Michael stared at him blankly. "An electronic message," Aziraphale continued. "It's a way of sending letters from computer to computer, anywhere in the world. They arrive in just seconds. They're really quite handy," he went on, rambling now that he felt his feet on firmer ground. "I use it all the time. I send messages to customers, dealers, Crowley-" Aziraphale stopped suddenly, as he felt his feet carry him blithely over the lip of a pit.

"Just for business, not that we have _business_, ha ha," he continued, verbally scrambling for purchase. "Just when I want to send him a… a Biblical quotation! Or, an admonishment! I admonish him all the time. I would have sent him a harsh one about that fire business, but I saw him over dinner, so I did it in person. Uh. Er." He finished lamely, flapping his arms to slow his fall.

Michael said "Humph." It was the sound of a shell-shocked angel metaphorically hitting the ground.

Aziraphale sank down onto his desk, feeling his knees go weak for the first time in a millennium. Micheal stood, and he seemed much, much taller than he had when he first arrived.

"I'll have to discuss this meeting with the others," he said, "but I feel I can safely say that you must stay away from that demon trash, if you're to have any hope of remaining in England or, on Earth at all, for that matter. Have a good night, Aziraphale."

And then he was gone. He didn't leave, but simply vanished as if he hadn't been there at all. Aziraphale just sat for a while, feeling his emotions have a cage-match inside of his chest. On one hand, he knew that what Michael had said was true. Crowley was the enemy, and Aziraphale had let them become far too close. He was terrified that he would be recalled, or that he would Fall. On the other hand, he knew that nothing Michael had said even resembled the truth. Crowley had had a dozen opportunities to orchestrate Aziraphale's Fall himself, and he'd never done it. Yes, he was evil, and he was the enemy, but he was also a good man. It was an oxymoron, but there it was. Crowley was antithetical to himself. He was a better man than the worst evil he'd ever committed.

Aziraphale sighed, and climbed the stairs to the little flat he kept above the shop. He changed into a pair of plaid pajamas, crawled into the small bed3, and slept for the first time in sixty years years.

1 Like a bra on a lamp you swear you just dusted, when your mother-in-law pops by unexpectedly.

2 Most waiters would assert that this was certainly more evil than Crowley's course of action.

3 He only kept it for the nights Crowley got too drunk to drive, and refused to sober up. Sometimes, he thought Crowley did it on purpose, just so he wouldn't have to go home. He always dismissed these thoughts as uncharitable, and would have been quite surprised to learn he was right.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Crowley noticed upon entering the shop the next day, was the distinct lack of Aziraphale. On the heels of that was the realization that someone had been here, someone powerful and _good_. Whoever it had been had left an aura that made Crowley feel ill. His head was spinning, and his hands shook. The third thing he realized was that whoever it was might have taken Aziraphale with them when they left, explaining why the rather punctual angel was nowhere to be seen.

Crowley felt himself start to panic, and quickly rushed for the stairs, hoping beyond hope that Azi was just in his rooms for some reason, and that he couldn't sense him because the other presence was too overpowering.

When he reached the top of the stairs, an opened the door, he was both relieved and discomfited to find Aziraphale asleep. The last time Crowley could remember that happening was after the end of WWII.

Aziraphale had worked tirelessly throughout the whole thing, and when it finally ended, he'd put himself to bed for a week. He'd also accused Crowley of causing the whole thing, something the demon still resented. Some things were beyond even him.

The point, though, was that something truly terrible must have happened; something worse than an impending Apocalypse. Crowley swallowed hard, and sat down on the edge of Aziraphale's bed.

He leaned over carefully, and gently shook the angel, going about the task of waking him gingerly, in much the same way a teenager knocks on the principal's door. When this didn't work, he whispered his name softly, and shook his shoulder a little harder.

Aziraphale came awake violently1, fists flailing at the first target he saw, which was, unfortunately, Crowley's face. He landed one sharp blow that sent Crowley's sunglasses flying, before the demon was able to restrain him.

Crowley recoiled as the noon sun hit his eyes, causing him to let go of Aziraphale's wrists and wrench his eyes closed. He prepared himself for another blow, and when it didn't come he opened his eyes tentatively.

Aziraphale was staring at him, mouth hanging open, looking as if he didn't know where or who he was. Crowley stood and retrieved his glasses, as much for his eyes as his dignity. When he had them settled on his face, he sat down in the chair opposite the bed, and folded his hands in his lap.

He was trying to be patient, but patience was a virtue, and he didn't have any of those by his very definition. "Would you mind," he said, hissing slightly2 "telling me what is going on here? Who was here last night, why are you in bed, and why do you even own pajamas?"

Aziraphale ran a shaking hand through his hair, and then shook his head in an attempt to clear it. His eyes looked dull and far away, and Crowley came to the horrid conclusion that Aziraphale was not, indeed, a morning person. He was the sort of man that would sit in bed like a dull rock, grumpy and petulant, until he'd had a cup of coffee, and, perhaps, a muffin.

Crowley hated that type, because he was the kind that awoke feeling nothing but grateful that whatever had happened the night, week, or centaury before, had happened without him. He heaved a theatrical sigh of frustration, and materialized a full breakfast tray, complete with real cream and sugar.

Aziraphale just stared at it for a moment, before pouring himself a cup of coffee that he held like it was the Grail itself. After a few minutes, the light seemed to come back into his eyes, and he smiled at Crowley for the first time that day.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," he said, "I'm afraid I had a bit of a rough night. You shouldn't be here."

"We were supposed to go to lunch, angel. We made plans, remember? We should be at the Ritz right now, so I suppose neither of us are _supposed_ to be here."

Aziraphale merely shook his head, clutching his cup even tighter. Crowley noticed he looked pale and afraid.

"I meant you shouldn't be here at all," Aziraphale said softly. "Ever. We can't continue to see each other, professionally or personally. The Arrangement is done, and so is any association between the two of us. I'm sorry, dear, but you should leave, and don't come back."

Crowley found himself standing before the angel was even finished speaking, his instincts pulling him in two different directions. His prideful demon side was tugging him towards the door, wanting to leave as requested, destroying everything in the shop on his way out. The clearer, more human side, which he'd gotten from six thousand years on earth, pulled him towards the angel, wanting to question and comfort, to learn and understand.

In the end, neither side won out, and he ended up spinning in a complete circle before sitting down gracelessly on the floor. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, wanting to sleep, and let _this _happen without him.

"Crowley, please," Aziraphale said from the bed, "It's what's best for both of us."

"Why?" Crowley said, "Why now? Does it have something to do with whoever was in your shop last night? I deserve to know; after six thousand years, spent mostly together, you owe me that."

Aziraphale cringed at the mention of time, whether because it had been too long together, or not enough, Crowley wasn't sure. He wasn't sure why it would matter; it was only _time_, after all. After a while, it all blended together anyway. There were only periods of excruciating boredom broken up by periods of overwhelming excitement, and sometimes mind-numbing terror. It hadn't escaped Crowley's attention that the better bits were usually spent in the company of the angel, and he was sure Aziraphale felt the same.

Which is why Aziraphale's next words made complete sense, while being completely devastating.

"Michael came to see me last night," he said, "he feels we'd be better off spending some time apart." He continued on with the story, recounting the conversation he'd had the previous night. By the time he reached the end, Crowley was angrier than he'd ever thought possible.

"They can't do this," he said, pacing the floor. "We get our jobs done, we don't shirk our duties. This is ridiculous, angel. We've spent the last few millennia down here on our own, with no help from _them_. Then they think they can just pop by for a quick visit, say 'sorry we haven't been around for the past history of the world, been rather busy, oh, by the way, here are some instructions for how we want you to run your life, ta.' Bugger that. You shouldn't let them push you around-"

"I could Fall, Crowley," Aziraphale interrupted. "He told me specifically. I could Fall, and then where would I be? Stuck in Hell, doing whatever it is that keeps you lot busy down there. Torturing the damned, probably, and plotting and tempting and _paperwork._ I couldn't take it; I'd probably let all those poor souls go. Is that what you want? For me to Fall? We'd finally be on the same side, I'd finally be on your level. We could commiserate about how it isn't fair, _we_ don't deserve _this_, and then we could go sink a cruise ship. Oh, I bet you'd be pleased as punch. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. It's different after you Fall, right? You don't care anymore."

Aziraphale had been standing through this diatribe, looking far fiercer than striped pajamas should technically allow, but he sank back onto the bed at the end, his face crumbling into that of a tired, broken, middle-aged man.

Crowley felt the fight go out of him, and he joined the angel, sitting with his back against the wall, and his knees drawn up to his chest. It was a vulnerable, defeated position, but Crowley didn't care. He felt vulnerable and defeated, and people would be paying for that later3, but for now he just let it go.

They sat in silence for a while, the tension between them thick and heady. Finally, when Crowley couldn't take the quiet anymore he said, "Listen to me, Azi. This is something I've never talked about before, or ever will again.

When you Fall, the first thing you feel is an overwhelming sense of relief, because the worst thing you've ever imagined, the worst thing you've ever been threatened with has happened, and you've survived it, and it cannot possibly get worse from here. But, then you feel overwhelming terror, because it can get worse, it always can, it's just that nobody ever talks about it. And that terror never goes away. Ever. It's yours; you've earned it.

The only truly good, fear-free moments I've had in the entire time I've been a demon, were sitting in this shop, drinking jasmine tea, and talking to you. Breathing in the steam, listening to you go on about books, or restaurants; it was almost like being back in Heaven, but not nearly as boring.

So, no, I would never wish you to Fall. It would _hurt_ you, and you've given me, your enemy, my only peace. You deserve your Heaven, and I deserve my Hell, and if you ever did Fall, I would try to catch you. It would do no good, but I'd still try, because I love you, angel. If that means I have to pack it in and set up shop in Beirut, then I will."

Crowley had been staring at his lap throughout, and he didn't look up until he felt Aziraphale's hand on his knee. The angel was smiling beatifically at him, with just a hint of sadness in his eyes. It was then that Crowley realized that sadness was ever-present, something that shone through in even the happiest of moments.

Crowley had never contemplated what effect the world must have on a creature who was designed to feel every pang and every hurt of over six billion people, and he felt his heart break for the angel. It was a new feeling, but also one he vaguely remembered from a very long time ago, when he'd been a different sort of being.

Aziraphale nodded as if he could read Crowley's thoughts, and patted his knee.

"I was unaware demons could feel love," he said. "I thought that was the first thing one lost when one lost sight of God. I always knew _you_ could, though. I suppose I never really thought of you as a demon."

"Oh, don't be fooled," Crowley responded. "I'm all demon, and proud of it, thank you very much. But I was an angel once. I was made with all that 'love all things, feel compassion for the low, and be in awe of the exalted' stuff built right in. You do lose it, but that doesn't mean you can't find it again. Especially if you have help. It's nonsense, Aziraphale. This whole thing is just nonsense. We're all part of the same stock, just from different parts. I should go. Wouldn't want them to get testy with us, send us both to Hell."

He stood from the bed and headed for the door, resolute that he wouldn't turn around, and that he wouldn't look back. Looking back only ever got people in trouble, if you believed the stories, and he did.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale said, stopping him in his tracks. " Crowley, I… As an angel, I love everything equally as God's children. Humans, and trees, and ducks, and demons. But, um, I love you a little bit more than I love the rest. That is to say, if it were a choice between you and another of God's children, there would be no question. But, I cannot love you more than I love God. I will not. I'm sorry, my dear."

Crowley smiled bitterly, and tightened his hand on the doorknob.

"I know," he said. "And I'd never ask you to."

He opened the door and made it to the stairs before his will failed and he broke the one rule he'd set for himself.

He turned around and ran back into the room, grabbed Aziraphale by his stunned face, and kissed him soundly.

"I lied," he said when he pulled away, "I would ask you to, I'd beg you to choose me, not to abandon me, to be with me. I'd get on my knees and plead and promise to love you always, and I'd mean it, because we belong to each other. But I wouldn't really want it. You're my angel, and if you Fell, you wouldn't be that anymore. Every ounce of goodness I have is yours, always. It isn't much, but it will always be your property, and no one else's."

Aziraphale stood stunned, and Crowley fled before he could reply. He was stunned himself, because he'd just given the angel the last shred of soul he'd managed to hang onto, and that was the most intimate thing someone could do.

He ran down the stairs and practically flew into he Bentley, tearing out into traffic, and almost hitting a woman standing in the middle of the road, wondering where the hell her little red Ford had gotten off too.

1 He'd mastered the art of sleep-fighting long ago. Crowley always thought he could market the skill, if he ever slept, and if he wasn't such a pansy*.

*I.e. a pacifist.

2 Which is a testament to his mood, since hissing on non-sibilants is considered impossible by those in the know.

3 And they did. He tempted a passing human with the idea of creating a new social networking site. This one would be different, because it would be far less useful than it's predecessors, but much more addictive. He thought it should be called something like Tweeter*.

* To understand why this was unimaginably evil, you have to think like a six thousand year old demon, who'd spent that time amongst humans who loved anything new, and constantly refused to get the joke.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time he reached his flat, Crowley had talked himself into the darkest mood a demon could reach, and the world was gently shuddering around him. All over the planet, peaceful people were quite suddenly laying down their knitting needles and fishing poles, and taking up arms. The Americans suddenly decided they hated the Canadians, the Scottish declared war on the Irish, Australia declared war on New Zealand, the British on the French, and the Germans on the world1.

Crowley caught himself, and put a stop to the madness before anybody could launch one of the nuclear missiles no one admitted to having2. It wouldn't do to destroy the world after all the work he and the angel had put in to save it. There would be no end to Aziraphale's lecture-

He cut the traitorous thought off, and stormed into his flat, planning to take the rest of his mood out on a few philodendrons, and maybe the rose bush.

He shuddered when he got through the door, the same feeling that had been in the shop greeting him in his own home.

"I know you're here," he yelled to the empty air, "come to gloat, have you? Well, I'm in a fighting mood, so be warned. I'm not about to play nice!"

Michael appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tea tray in one hand, and a sword in the other.

"Nor am I," he said, "I think you have quite forgotten who your speaking to, Crawly. Now sit down, before I enact a little vengeance for whatever I feel like enacting vengeance for."

Crowley gave this the consideration it deserved, and then sat down on the sofa. He _hadn't_ forgotten, that was the thing. There were very few things left in the world that could frighten him, but topping the list was Michael, armed with his sword.

Michael came around the sofa, and placed a cup in front of Crowley, settling himself in the chair opposite. He paused to stir milk and sugar into his tea, and Crowley waited on the edge of his seat. It wasn't exactly unheard of for an angel to pay a civil visit to a demon, take Aziraphale for example, but an Archangel? That was not only unheard of, but also quite possibly impossible.

Crowley felt like Heaven should be falling to Earth, or Hell should be exploding in a mass of lava and ice. Neither of these things seemed to be happening though. The only effect Michael sitting in Crowley's apartment seemed to be having was the slight headache the demon had developed.

"Right then," Michael said, when his tea had been set to rights, "I bet you're surprised to see me, but not nearly as surprised as I am to be here. We've been watching our brother carefully, Crawly, and you as well, of course. We found the conversation you had today to be quite… interesting. Your declaration of love was surprising and laughable. One cannot love outside of the grace of God; it's unattainable. God is the source of all love, the beginning and the end, if you will. What is more shocking, to us at least, is the fact that Aziraphale was taken in by it. I daresay he should know better. But, he cannot be blamed, because your intentions feel clean. If there is a game in this for you, I cannot find it. Do you believe what you've said, demon? Do you believe you have attained the unattainable?"

Crowley sat back and thought about what he should say, which was odd for him. In most situations, he simply shot his mouth off, and if people didn't' like what they heard, then to Hell with them. This time, however, he had the feeling something larger than popular opinion was at stake. He weighed his words carefully, in full knowledge that Heaven wasn't the only place listening to this conversation. Hell was certainly interested in his answer, and either way he went here would heap more trouble on his head then he could probably handle.

In the end, he chose to speak to what would do Aziraphale the most justice, because Crowley was damned either way.

"I don't think it's unattainable for demons to love or be loved, Michael. That's just ridiculous propaganda spread up there to frighten, and down there to keep us in line. If all love comes from God, and all things are made of God, then it stands to reason that love can never be lost, just forgotten. Aziraphale reminded me. It's that simple. I was an angel once, Michael. I'm sure you haven't forgotten. I used to love everything, every single thing so much it hurt. I may have Fallen, and I may have become evil, and I may enjoy that immensely, but I am still made from God, just like everybody else."

Crowley sat back when he was finished, breathing heavily, and riding the high one can only get from taking your chances, and burning them all at once.

Michael stared at him, not trying to hide the fact that he was reading Crowley for lies and evil intentions. He finally nodded, seemingly satisfied, and sighed heavily.

"I believe you believe that, Crawly. Whether you really feel this love for our brother, or you have just fooled yourself into thinking it, I must wonder if you can fully comprehend the implications of love. Do you understand what it means to truly and unconditionally love another being, more than anything else?"

The question was asked without rancor, and Crowley surprised himself by not taking offence. Concern for Aziraphale was the driving force behind this conversation, and that was a point he could agree with the Archangel on.

"I'm not sure," he said, softly, "that love is the same for everyone. I don't know if my love is comparable to anyone else's. The only thing I am absolutely sure of is that I would spend the rest of eternity in Hell, to save Aziraphale from having to step one foot in that place. If I have to spend every single second for the rest of my immortal life being dipped in flames, and ripped to shreds in payment for my love, then that's fine. I don't care. But, if I have spend the rest of my life mourning his loss, because my actions caused him to Fall, or to be recalled… then bugger it, all of it. The world can go hang, if he's not in it."

Michael sighed again, and rolled his eyes, and Crowley couldn't tell if he was pleased by what he'd heard, or repulsed by it. Either would probably inspire the same disgusted reaction.

"This is a difficult situation, Crawly, but I believe from what you've said that you do care for Aziraphale, in your own way. I don't believe you'd ever cause him to Fall intentionally, but that doesn't mean that your influence won't cause it to occur, and we simply cannot take that chance."

"Yeah, yeah, I get that. I've already agreed to stay away from him, if that's what it takes for you to get off his back. It should be his choice though. He trusts me not to tempt him, and I trust that he knows the line. It should be his choice, not yours."

Michael shook his head, standing to leave. "It cannot be his choice," he said. "He doesn't have free will, anymore than you or I do."

"We were all given a choice whether or not to Fall. If we weren't supposed to have free will, than we shouldn't have been given a taste of it. Give a mouse a cookie, and all of that."

Michael knitted his brow. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're referring to," he said3.

Crowley shrugged. "Your lot never does. If we're quite through here, I'd like to tend to my plants."

Michael grimaced, clearly aware of how Crowley intended to 'tend', and then faded out. Crowley stared at the now vacant space for a few minutes, and then decided to leave London for a while. Maybe for a lifetime.

Aziraphale was going about his day as if nothing was amiss, because that was the only way he knew how to handle things. He didn't pretend that nothing had happened, and he certainly didn't hold with the theory that if he ignored it, the problem would go away, but he didn't see how changing his pattern and neglecting his duties would help anything. Idle hands were the Devil's playground, after all.

Still, he found himself taking a bit more pleasure in running customers out of his shop than was strictly angelic, and he had almost laughed when a small boy tied his father's shoe-laces together, causing the man to fall onto the counter. Aziraphale had actually thought 'That'll teach him to try to buy my books.' It was shameful really.

He knew most people, including the demon in question, would say that such unchristian actions were Crowley's influence, but Aziraphale knew better.

It was the lack of Crowley that was making him act so out of character.

It had only been four hours, and he already missed the demon. He was shocked to think that over the years, he'd come to need him like air. That is to say, he would need him like air, if he needed air, which he didn't, but he allowed the analogy to stand. He was too tired and sick to think of a more fitting one.

The point was, Crowley had become an integral part of his life. After so many years together, it would be silly to think that he wouldn't.

They'd been through wars together, and times of peace, and everything in between. Aziraphale remembered the end of the Second World War, when he'd lashed out at Crowley, blaming him for the whole cursed thing. Crowley had been shocked and wounded, but he'd still held Aziraphale when he'd cried. And, though he had never admitted it, and probably never would, the dampness he'd left on Aziraphale's neck was enough for Aziraphale to know that Crowley had cried too.

Then, when Vietnam was in full swing, and peace protests were springing up everywhere, Crowley had accompanied Aziraphale to one, and he'd even helped him stop the riot that had almost ensued when the police showed up.

The point was, Crowley had become more to him than an enemy or a business associate. He'd become his confidante, and his friend. Aziraphale had meant what he'd said earlier. His priorities went: God, Crowley, everything else.

It was probably for the best then, he reasoned, that he and Crowley should spend some time apart. It was foolish and dangerous to feel for anything what he felt for Crowley. His job on Earth was not to keep his demon counterpart out of trouble. His job was to look after mankind. Crowley got in the way of that.

Aziraphale nodded to himself, and sank down into his desk chair. His reasoning was sound, his logic infallible. Now all he had to do was work himself around to believing it, and then things would be just fine.

There was a faint whooshing sound at that point, and Aziraphale watched with little enthusiasm as Michael appeared beside him.

"I'll just get to the point," Michael said, unceremoniously. "I think we have already wasted enough time on this issue. I went to see Craw- Crowley today. We had an enlightening conversation. Do you love him, Aziraphale? Even though he is one of God's disgraced children, and despite the fact he is the antithesis to everything you stand for and believe in?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said instantly. "Despite all of that, I love him with all my heart. I love the good that's in him, that little spark of soul that shines in his eyes. He gives me hope that even the most depraved of individuals may be redeemed. He reminds me that there is always room for mercy, and grace. He makes me a better angel, and I love him."

"Good," Michael said. "Love is the most powerful thing in the universe, and love of an enemy is the purest sort. It takes strength and courage to love a thing you were built to revile, and we cannot deny you that. Do with Crowley as you will, but be warned that if you go to far, you will Fall. You may continue associating with him, but you must stay within the moral lines to which you have always been bound. Do you understand this?"

"No," Aziraphale said, surprised. "I mean yes, of course, but why the change of heart?"

"Because of something Crowley said, actually. He said that it should be your choice, to take the risk of Falling. Of course, _that's_ nonsense, but the principal is sound. All angels were given the choice upon creation, to remain with God, or Fall from Him. No other angel was spared this decision, and neither will you be. Besides," he continued, in a slightly lower voice, "he loves you, and you love him, and that's… beautiful. You taught a demon to love, and just between you and me, we're very proud of you. That's what it's all about, after all, this whole thing. Good luck, Aziraphale. I'll pray for you."

And then he was gone, and Aziraphale was left stunned. He immediately grabbed the phone and dialed Crowley's number. He waited impatiently until the machine picked up.

"Hello, you've reached A.J. Crowley. I've taken an extended vacation to someplace you're probably not, so leave a message and I'll return your call if I ever get around to it, and if it still matters. _Ciao_."

Oh, blast. The least the demon could have done was leave a forwarding address. Now, Aziraphale was left with no choice but to do something he truly hated doing.

He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and concentrated. The room was filled with a loud POP, and then he was gone.

xxXXxx

Crowley was stuck in traffic, inching along at the unnatural speed of 25mph, and he hated it. He hated _everything_ right now, but more than anything else at this very moment, he hated this traffic and every single motorist that was between him and his destination. The hate was coming off of him in waves, infecting everybody it came into contact with, creating such lovely road rage that he felt it was almost worth being stuck.

He was just getting into the groove of it, sending the hate out in more specific directions so as to create more entertaining results, when the car was filled with a loud POP, and the passenger seat was suddenly occupied by a very bedraggled looking angel.

Crowley jumped, and let go of the wheel while at the same time flooring the accelerator. The Bentley took over out of self-defense, pulling itself over to the shoulder, and slowing to a stop.

"I hate that," Aziraphale said. "It's so disorienting, I don't see how Michael can do it all the time. He does seem to have a knack for doing it in a quieter fashion though, I will give him that."

Crowley stared at him for a moment, his jaw somewhere by his knees, and then he said, "For Chris- for Go- for _my_ sake, angel, don't do that! What are you doing here? I thought it was forbidden."

"Plead with me," Aziraphale said, with what looked to be an almost devilish gleam in his eyes. "Plead with me, and tell me you'll love me always."

Crowley took his glasses off, and looked Aziraphale directly in the eye. Yes, there was definitely a gleam there, and Crowley wasn't sure he liked it.

"What are you playing at?" he asked. "This isn't funny you know. I meant what I said; you don't have to be such a git. Don't have to rub it in."

Aziraphale laughed, and took his hand. The Bentley took advantage of this distraction to slowly start heading back into traffic, but Crowley barely noticed. His attention was on the fact that Aziraphale was here, right in front of him, and holding his hand.

"What are you playing at?" he said again.

"Nothing my dear, I just wanted to hear you say it. I just spoke with Michael, and you got through to him, dear boy. They're allowing us to remain together, as long as I don't anything too evil, and muck it up. Which I won't. So, the Arrangement will stand, with a few minor additions, if you want them."

"No," Crowley replied, "not in the Arrangement. Some things are better done off contract. Keeps it spontaneous."

Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley thought he'd never looked more ethereally beautiful than he did at that minute, and that was going some. Crowley leaned in for a kiss, and Aziraphale stopped him with a hand.

"Say it," he said, only kidding with his tone. Crowley growled and rolled his eyes.

"Come on, I said it once, isn't that enough? Can't you just know it, without making it a _thing_?"

"Say it Crowley, or you might as well keep going to wherever you were headed."

"_Fine_. I love you; I will always love you, and nothing will ever change that. There, are you happy now?"

Aziraphale nodded. "I love you, too," he said, and Crowley leant in and kissed him deeply, in a way that brooked no argument.

Aziraphale settled into it, and for just one moment both of their souls were loving and pure. In that one moment soldiers laid down their arms, presidents quit plotting, families put aside their differences, and everyone in the world felt at peace4.

For that one moment. But, Hell would still have to be paid, and they weren't likely to be as accepting as their angelic counterparts. Or, perhaps they were. Perhaps they considered it a testament to Crowley's skills that he had an angel wrapped around his little finger. Perhaps Crowley and Aziraphale were allowed to exist together in peace, both sides proud of what their respective agents had accomplished. After all, if their love could give the world even one moment of peace, anything is possible.

That's probably not what happened, though.

1 This is not normally something one demon could do by himself, but there had never been another demon in quite the state Crowley had worked himself up to.

2 This left a lot of embarrassed politicians scrambling to find something to blame it on, and not a few nice old ladies gingerly removing sewing supplies from their neighbors extremities.

3 It would be prudent to note at this point that Heaven is not oblivious to pop-culture, they just prefer not to notice it. After all, all it takes for one to lose faith in humanity is to look at the way they entertain themselves. Heaven will surely crumble the day they figure out what a 'brangelina' is.

4 This, of course, was something that they never should have been able to cause. It was far more difficult than Crowley's earlier trick, because it is far easier to orchestrate world war than it is to orchestrate world peace. Of course, this _was_ the first time an angel and a demon had sat making-out in a classic, Anti-Christ created Bentley that was currently driving itself to its favorite petrol station, so there is a first for absolutely everything.


End file.
